


let me in lover, be kind

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:24:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a cosmic balancing act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me in lover, be kind

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this forever and a blog ago, and I guess I didn't like it when I wrote it, so I just posted it to tumblr and moved on? But either my standards back then were fucked or my standards today are way chiller because I went back and read this and... actually... liked it. So, here it is.
> 
> The idea was born out of Derek saying that the "universe has a way of balancing itself out" in _Fury_ (2x10), which had me thinking about Derek and how, if that's really the case, he's going to get ALL THE NICE THINGS when all of this blows over. But, being Derek, he probably would take the nice things without a dose of manpain. So, here you have it folks. 
> 
> I call this purple prose, but I accept that and I embrace that. I dunno about you.

He wonders, in the darkness of both the bedroom and his mind, if this is the answer—if this is his sin, the one he’s been paying for his entire life.

It’s a cosmic balancing act.

Eventually, Derek’s scales were going to get fixed. It was only a matter of time.

A lifetime of suffering, of anger, of hatred. A lifetime of self-loathing and regrets. A lifetime of _death_.

It’s a cosmic balancing act.

The universe has owed Derek something kind for a very, very long time.

Stiles’s eyes catch what little light has filtered into the room, and they are _huge_ on his face, so close to his cheekbones. His brow furrows, a trace of irritation there, and he flicks beneath Derek’s jaw.

“Come back,” he says, frustrated, and Derek pushes his hand away, scowls up at him.

“I’m right here,” he says, but his voice is soft—a broken thing, nearly a whisper.

“Well, stay there,” Stiles says, and it’s awkward like he doesn’t know quite what to say but he knows he wants to be a smartass.

Derek says, “Come here,” and Stiles listens, tilts his head up and runs his lips across Derek’s.

His breath is warm and he tastes like something heavy and wet and his lips are a little chapped. His hands shake (they always do, like he’s got more energy than he really knows what to do with) when he brackets Derek’s head with them, boxes Derek down to the mattress.

It’s an illusion they share, this idea that Stiles could _keep_ Derek anywhere.

Stiles doesn’t say, “I was worried,” and Derek doesn’t say, “I need you,” but they kiss forever, long and slow, until Stiles’s arms start to shake at his elbows and he has to shift to hold himself up with his forearms. His body drops almost completely on top of Derek, and that’s enough—it’s enough for Derek, who throws an arm around Stiles’s back and _pulls_.

And Stiles laughs against Derek’s mouth, like it is always such a surprise to be touched.

Like it is always such a surprise to be touched by _Derek_.

“You have some real control issues—you know that, right?” Stiles teases, and Derek huffs.

He tries to pull his arm away, but Stiles shifts to catch his hand with one of his, his weight moving entirely onto one side of his body, his shoulder digging into Derek’s.

“Gosh, take a joke,” Stiles says, his voice warm, and Derek shivers—can’t help it at the _promise_ in that tone.

(The promise of skin against skin and bickering between the sheets and coffee in the morning.)

“Any chance of this happening this year or—” Derek starts, but Stiles ducks his head and bites at Derek’s neck, so the words stop in his throat and stay there until he forgets what he was going to say entirely.

“Stop being a bossy jackass and maybe,” Stiles tells him, and he’s moving—leaning away, letting Derek’s arm slide off of him slowly.

Derek wants to protest, but he doesn’t. He rolls his eyes heavenward and waits, doesn’t look at Stiles, who sits on his haunches silently. Derek doesn’t have to see him.

He knows, because this is another Tuesday night in a very long string of Tuesday nights, what Stiles looks like in the dark of the room, silhouetted by the streetlight across the street, which breaks across his room, warm and gold and splintered by his blinds.

He knows Stiles is thin, not as frighteningly so as he’s been before —

(A warehouse, a crazy old man, a boy who was haunted by things Derek hadn’t been able to see when he’d given him a _gift,_ and a key all come to mind; Derek shoves them away violently, refuses to let them exist in the same space as HimAndStiles, StilesAndHim because these are, presently, good things, untainted things.)

— but he's thin nevertheless.

And in the lifeless glow of the gold street light, Derek knows what image awaits him:

Stiles, leaning back, looking down, his shoulders broad and dark against the light, the sharp turn of his collar bone jutting out on either side, like the beginnings of wings or something that might be gruesome were it not so elegant, so disturbingly _attractive_. Stiles’s arms, thicker than just about any part of him, a little awkward because he has yet to _quite_ grow into his limbs—because he’s young, so achingly young—and the slightest s-shape curve his body takes on as he lets his left side take most of his weight.

His right leg hasn’t been great since the Alpha Pack.

Derek doesn’t think about it.

Good Things.

Untainted things.

In the dark, Derek keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling above. He wonders what sin is.

It’s a cosmic balancing act.

He could live a thousand lifetimes of pain and anguish; he could relive _his_ lifetime of pain and anguish over and over again, and he still wouldn’t deserve Stiles like this.

He thinks about sin, and Stiles catches him again and says, “Come _back_ , motherfucker.”

And Derek rolls his eyes, chances a look down just as Stiles is leaning towards him, and when they kiss their teeth clash.

“Ow,” Stiles mutters, falling into easy irritation.

Stiles is always irritated. Stiles is always sarcastic. Stiles is always a huge pain in the ass.

Stiles is beautiful.

His skin seems to soak up the light in the room, and it glows with the faintest yellow tint. His moles and freckles are smudged by the darkness, just slightly, though if Derek wanted to, he could make his vision sharper, make Stiles glow _red_ instead of gold.

He doesn’t want to.

He wants Stiles just like this; warm in the artificial light, against all odds, smudged around the edges by the shadows of his room.

(And if he wants Stiles to smudge into him, just a little? So be it. A little would be enough. Derek doesn’t need or ask for much. Just a touch of Stiles, something for the road.)

Stiles kisses like an argument, and Derek’s never been good at letting Stiles get the last word.

He’s not sure when he gets his hands around Stiles’s head, when he gets his fingers wrapped around the hair Stiles has grown out over the past several months. He’s not sure when he gets his legs wrapped around Stiles’s thighs, or how Stiles managed to get between Derek’s legs to begin with, though it doesn’t surprise Derek at all to know that his body opened itself to Stiles without his knowing.

He’s not sure of anything besides the way Stiles’s skin against his own makes him feel, and even that is a vague thought, one he can’t _quite_ give words or a name to.

Stiles’s hands are cool against Derek’s skin, like his touch alone can tamper the fire rushing through Derek’s veins.

(It can’t. Derek’s been on fire since he was sixteen, since his life went to hell.)

Stiles makes a greedy noise in the back of his throat, and Derek pulls himself off the bed with the force of the kiss, with the enthusiasm with which he pulls that sound from Stiles. Stiles leans back, and Derek goes with him.

Magnetism.

They sit, almost, with Stiles reared back and Derek’s legs still wrapped around his and Derek’s hands around Stiles’s head, Stiles’s hands twitching on the burning skin of Derek’s bare thighs.

It’s with a rush of _reality_ that Derek becomes aware of how hard he is for this, how much he needswantsneeds what’s happening here.

Stiles must notice, too, because he breaks away to curse darkly, and he wraps a hand around himself powerfully, the skin stretched across his knuckles powerfully.

“Fuck _me_ ,” he mutters, and Derek can’t help but snort.

“… If that’s what you want,” he says, his tone mocking, and he can’t see Stiles’s eyes, but Derek can feel when he’s being glared at.

 “Smartass,” Stiles snaps—irritated.

(He’s always irritated—unless he’s playful, unless he’s fond, unless he’s given up hope.)

His fingers flex when he gets them on Derek’s hips, when he urges Derek to turn over, onto his hands and knees. Derek goes.

It’s another illusion, thinking that Stiles can move Derek as he pleases.

Derek thinks of sins and smudges.

Smudges like Stiles’s eyelashes in the dark of the room, which he wishes he could see and touch and brush his lips against right before he comes. He prefers to be on his back if only for those long, haunting smudges against Stiles’s cheeks.

“I see London; I see France,” Stiles says—his irritation gone, his playfulness coming out— and Derek rolls his eyes. “I see Derek’s _awesome ass_.”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says flatly, shifting down onto his forearms.

“He says as he pushes his ass closer to my face,” Stiles says around a sigh, and, there, that’s fondness.

“Kind of hoping you’ll _get the hint_ sometime soon.”

Stiles huffs and says, “You know, masturbation is starting to seem a lot less annoying at this point.”

Derek snorts into the mattress, shifts a bit, and takes matters into his own hand in the absolute most literal sense.

“You are _zero_ fun, okay?” Stiles tells him. “You’re decidedly _not_ the Alpha of sexy things.”

He rummages around through the tangled sheets for a few minutes, most likely for their lube, and the snapping open of the cap breaks through the room like a gunshot.

Derek shivers and arches upwards.

Magnetism.

Stiles hums something under his breath ( a song that Derek’s unfamiliar with and, frankly, doesn’t want to be familiar with considering the circumstances in which it popped into Stiles’s head), and Derek can hear clearly the slick sound of Stiles rubbing the lube across his fingers, warming it against his skin.

“Come _on_ ,” Derek urges, and he feels his cock pulse in his hand.

Stiles doesn’t dignify him with a spoken answer, but he does run his fingers, feather-light, up the seam of Derek’s ass from just behind his balls, trailing the smallest amount of lube in his wake. He stops at Derek’s hole and presses there, ever so lightly and nowhere near enough.

Derek grinds his teeth together and waits it out.

After an eternity, though, Stiles presses into Derek slowly, and everything in Derek starts to fall apart.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles breathes, and it’s only then that Derek knows he’s made a sound. “Let me hear you.”

Derek tries to stop himself, tries to catch the sounds in his throat, tries to make himself forget how to make them.

It’s terrifying to not have control over this, to be a slave to whatever Stiles evokes within him.

 _This_ —this is not an illusion.

This is reality, the burn-stretch-burn of Stiles’s finger sliding into him, slowly, with careful pushes and prods, skirting _just_ past where Derek wants it to be. This is reality, the sound of Stiles’s breath catching in his throat, like _Derek_ is the one doing something amazing (no). This is reality, the way Derek’s body opens up so easily, so immediately under the hands of a kid who _doesn’t even realize_ what he’s doing to the man (not a beast, not a beast) beneath him.

“I—holy God, _Derek_ ,” Stiles chokes out.

He says Derek’s name like a prayer or a curse; Derek’s not sure which it is or which he’d prefer.

“Another,” Derek tells him in a winded tone, letting go of his cock as he tries to adjust to the burn running up his spine, as the stretch tapers down some of the desire in him.

It is equally terrifying and wonderful to have no control over the _want_ coursing through him—want that is much a fixture of his life as the moon or the pack or anything else stamped on his blood.

Two fingers is better, but not enough.

The third comes along with Stiles’s tongue, and Derek jerks so violently he nearly slips onto his stomach, and Stiles laughs—pleased to have caught Derek by surprised, always pleased to have something to level the playing field. His breath is a warm, wet puff against the curve of Derek’s ass, and his tongue is vicious as it pressed in with and around his fingers.

Derek pushes back and his entire body hums with anticipation, urging Stiles forward none-too-silently, his body sending every cue he knows to send.

Stiles is so rarely accommodating; so rarely is he anything other than persistently begrudging. Nothing comes easily with Stiles (there’s a dirty joke in there, just below the surface, but Derek’s not willing to scratch at it because he’s not eighteen and his eyes don’t light up with wicked delight every time he unearths a suggestive pun). There’s always a fight, there.

Not now. This is the exception to the rule, the exception that confirms the rule.

Now, in the darkness, which becomes less dark every second Derek’s eyes adjust to the light from the street lamp, Derek listens and hears the tearing of a condom wrapper and the sticky roll of it down Stiles’s cock.

He wants to see, wants to match sounds with sights instead of smudges of memories he has from all of their Tuesdays spent together.

Stiles’s hand on his hips is cool and doesn’t shake when he pressed down, urges Derek to move again, and Derek follows the pressure, turns over onto his back and thinks stiles.

But he must say it because Stiles’s eyes find his in the dark and there’s a curve to his lips that is something fond and mocking all at once, and Derek leans forward to kiss the shape of it, to taste Stiles because Stiles is good for all of his senses.

And Stiles opens his mouth and is wet and warm and sweet and Derek wants to kiss him always and is surprised by the _strength_ of that want.

Stiles pulls Derek into his lap (illusions, illusions), and they kiss for a long time before Derek feels the press of Stiles’s cock against him, feels Stiles pushing in.

He digs his fingers into Stiles’s shoulder blades, and Stiles wrenches his lips from Derek’s so he can breathe heavily in Derek’s ear, his forehead pressed to Derek’s temple.

He says, “Oh _fuckshitdamn_ ,” like he’s being overwhelmed and Derek makes himself breathe.

There’s a stillness when Stiles presses all the way in.

The room seems so bright now.

It’s strange to think it had ever seemed dark, that Stiles had ever been entirely smudged out, little more than a black-dark shape in a gray-dark room.

Now his skin is gold and the light catches on the ends of his hair and shatters, and Derek grazes his teeth against the curve of Stiles’s cheekbone and feels Stiles inhale sharply (his chest jumping so it brushes against Derek’s), and Stiles rolls his hips.

Derek makes a pained noise, and Stiles freezes.

He puts more weight on his left leg—his good leg—and suddenly there’s a burst of good straight up Derek’s spine.

He brushes his nose against Stiles’s hair.

They fall—because Derek shifted his weight or because Stiles lost his balance, it’s impossible to tell, but the fall back to the bed, Derek on his back, Stiles still inside of him.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, and he sounds irritated, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Derek doesn’t say anything; he folds his legs around Stiles’s hips and arches upward, and Stiles starts to move.

It’s not slow or careful because that’s not what either of them want or need.

But it’s _something_. A word that Derek can’t find in the darkness. He’s never been one for words; Stiles has a mind for words—lots and lots of words. He rattles off words like “sagacity” and “perfidious,” remnants of his SAT study days, like it’s no matter, no hassle.

Derek doesn’t like the way words like that sound in his mouth. He can talk just fine, but it’s rare that he says the right thing. Where words fail him, actions never have. Actions are hard to misinterpret. Words are—Derek doesn’t like words, doesn’t like trying to make them work the way he wants to. He wonders if words taste different on Stiles’s tongue, if he could chase them and their taste from Stiles’s mouth with his own.

Derek breathes over his favorite of Stiles’s freckles, the one on his left cheek, closest to the corner of his mouth, and Stiles’s hips roll against his, encourage Derek to move in response, to arch and rock in a way that is purely, absolutely instinct.

His hands are tight and tense and his fingers dig into Stiles’s back.

One deep, perfect, hard thrust and Derek throws his head back.

He groans; Stiles inhales, sharp and surprised.

Stiles’s room captures every sound they make and throws it around, makes it louder than it should be. But it’s a Tuesday; Tuesdays are theirs. Tuesdays aren’t frantic, rushed events in the back seat of cars or against charred, rain-wet walls or in the middle of the woods where _anyone_ could wander by.

Tuesdays mean a room to themselves, a room that is actually a world unto itself.

A world that is less painful than their own and something beautiful, like the hook of Stiles’s jaw and the shadows it casts, like the sweat beading on his brow as he puts his back in it and _fucks_ Derek like they both want.

Derek paws at him a little wildly, though absolutely in control.

Absolutely, he reminds himself. Absolutely in control. The little noises are nothing; the grunts and moans and sighs are safe. In every way that matters, his body is still his.

Someone more romantic might think Derek _incapable_ of hurting Stiles.

Derek knows better. Derek knows intimately how easy it would be for him to hurt Stiles, to mangle him.

What he doesn’t know is how badly Stiles could hurt _him_.

(Broken bones and bruises are nothing, nothing, nothing at all; the scary shit is locked away, tucked inside his body, ready to spill over at just the right word.)

“God dammit, stop _leaving_ ,” Stiles hisses, and his hand wraps around Derek’s dick, and Derek wants to sob with need. He doesn’t; he shakes and twists and keens, but he does not sob.

Stiles curls over him and kisses at his collar bone, sloppy with exertion as he moves his hips and pumps Derek’s cock in time.

It took him so little time to learn how to do this, to learn how to please Derek.

And that means something, but Derek’s not sure _what_.

“I’m—” Derek says, his voice wrecked and gone, and Stiles makes a noise of agreement.

“ _God_ ,” he says, sounding winded. “Fuck, come on, Derek—”

Derek is powerless to say no to that, to the tone in Stiles’s voice and the command there.

He is powerless.

It terrifies him for the haunting, split second before his orgasm hits him like a bullet to the chest, straight to the heart and ripping him open. His toes curl so hard they cramp, and he has to close his eyes against _everything_ because it’s _too much_.

Stiles fucks him through it steadily until he starts to come apart at the edges, and his resistance starts to fray.

He comes with a muffled shout, his bottom lip caught by his teeth.

Stiles is beautiful.

He pulls out with a dry, disbelieving sob like it is such a tragedy to have to go.

They are quiet, in the darkness that is no longer darkness, for a long time.

And Derek thinks about sin and about Stiles, wishing he wouldn’t heal so quickly, that he could feel the burn of what they’d done here, tonight, a little longer.

Until next Tuesday.

Stiles rolls off of him, presses along Derek’s side from shoulder to hip, and says, “Derek,” in the softest voice, and Derek rolls onto his stomach, half on top of Stiles.

Stiles runs his fingers into Derek’s hair and pets him for a moment before extracting himself just enough to turn on the lamp on the bedside table.

A rush of reality:

Not Stiles’s bedroom, but theirs. Stiles, grown now like he wasn’t when all this began. Not a Tuesday at all, but a Thursday night in a house that’s all theirs with everything in the past.

Stiles is beautiful, and his skin is even warmer in the cool white light of the lamp, and he skates his fingers over Derek’s back, over his tattoo, and huffs in his irritated, fond manner.

“You are so weird,” he says, and Derek nips at Stiles’s shoulder in answer.

“It reminded me of your room,” Derek says after a long time, and Stiles makes an incredulous sound. “Back then.”

“God, I hope not,” Stiles says, and he rubs a hand over his face and yawns. “I am _way_ better at sex these days, for one.”

Derek huffs a laugh into Stiles’s neck.

This is not an illusion.

Stiles moves into his touch with a shimmy and a shuffle and they fit together so easily—DerekAndStiles and StilesAndDerek

Magnetism.

Derek thinks about sin and he thinks about balance.

He thinks about the way Stiles’s mouth feels against his and the freckle close to his mouth, on his left cheek.

He thinks about their Tuesdays, about wanting to sneak out the back door with a taste of Stiles smudged across his tongue, not daring to ask for more.

Stiles is cool and under Derek now, eyeing a book on the nightstand, like he’s wondering if it would disturb Derek too much if he reached for it and started reading up on lunar cycles or helpful herbs or whatever it is he keeps in those books (books that have words Derek has no interest in learning, though Stiles has all the interest in the world).

Stiles is balance. Derek brushes his nose against the jutting of Stiles’s collar bone, the interruption of the smooth arc of Stiles’s shoulder, and Derek falls asleep against him just as he feels Stiles give in and reach for his book.

Stiles is a good thing.

An untainted thing.

And, years ago, he decided to keep Derek. For whatever reason. For real.

It’s not an illusion.

**Author's Note:**

> That's aLLL she wrote, folks. You can come hang out with me on tumblr.com at [breenwolf.tumblr.com](http://breenwolf.tumblr.com). I'm a pretty cool cat. It's whatever.


End file.
